


A Stark Solstice

by ritzintherabbithole



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cousin Incest, F/M, Gen, Gift Exchange, Jon Snow is King in the North, Jonsa Exchange, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 12:23:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13031055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ritzintherabbithole/pseuds/ritzintherabbithole
Summary: Holiday celebrations are always a time for reflections.Jon reflects.Sansa helps.(Clearly I'm not good at summaries)





	A Stark Solstice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [exollection](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=exollection).



> For the JonsaExchange.
> 
> My gift is for @exollection. I tried to do a happy one-shot but apparently I like my characters to be melancholy.
> 
> I hope you like it. Happy Holidays!

_It’s only fitting_ , she thought, _that fresh snow should blanket the land around Winterfell today of all days_. It is pristine, virgin white snow, seemingly pure, but Sansa know knows the kind of monsters that hide in the cold and her time spent in King’s Landing cured her of any instinct to trust appearances.

She stops her steps and shakes her head. Those type of thoughts would not do well to linger today. For today is the Winter Solstice, the promise of her father’s words truer today above all other days and a celebration is in order. A feast in the grand hall would be held tonight to mark the passing of not only the shortest day but of a year’s victory over the white walkers and their King. And after everything she and Jon and Arya and Bran and their people had endured it was only right to celebrate.

Still, she thinks, as she resumes her way to the Weirwood tree, no matter the grandness of the feast, the merriness of the songs, today would still bear the touch of sadness. Their victory had come with a heavy price, for the North is still recovering from the fight for the dawn, traces of destruction borne from the wights still marking the land. But recovering they were, her and the North, its people demonstrating that infamous Stark stoicism, none more than their King, her Jon.

_Her Jon. Her King. Her husband_.

She feels the pull of her lips twist upwards into an unconscious smile, her natural reaction to thoughts or mention of Jon. The love she holds for Jon, for her husband, surprises her in its depth, in its surety of feeling. She loves him and he loves her in return, a gift she sometimes thinks to be greater than having won the North its freedom.

It is he she seeks now at the Weirwood tree. He who she knows to be weighted by their father's words today. He she finds now, the darkness of his curls a delicious contrast to the white of the bark and the red of the leaves of the Weirwood tree.

She sees him tense at her approach and relax almost in the same breath knowing it is she who imposes upon his solitude without having to turn around, as if he has memorized the cadence of her footfalls. Knowing Jon as she does he probably has.

"Jon". Her voice is nothing but a whisper but deafening among the eerie silence of this sacred space. He turns at the mention of his name and as always, though she remains composed, is taken aback by his beauty and today, to the resemblance he bears to her father- their father. For Ned Stark will always be Jon's father no matter the seed.

"Sansa", Jon says in return, the ending syllable of her name almost a growl, a wolf's caress. It sends shivers down her spine in a way entirely inappropriate for the Queen in the North. He walks towards her, stretching his leather clad hands to cup her reddened cheeks, mindful now and always of the weight she carries around her middle. It's Jon's child, their child and the promise of a future for the entire North and for the Starks. All of this she carries in her swollen belly, a heavy weight but never a burden. It was the secret buried in her heart, a dream she only whispered aloud to Jon in the darkest of nights. It was a comfort, a retreat to have thought of their possible children in the midst of an almost unwinnable war. Only they had survived the fight and the old gods did not prove to be as cruel as she thought them for she had seen her belly grow within 4 months of Jon's return.

"The hour of the feast is almost upon us Jon", she says, "surely our bannermen must not be kept waiting too long for their King". In truth, she would be happy to spend her night sharing Jon's solitude, knowing that in this space, their hearts and minds would be alike, contemplating all they had lost and all they had gained since leaving Winterfell when they were both so young and wondering, if and what they would trade to have it all back.

"The banners can wait", he replies. "They will wait for their King as none are more important than his Queen, than his wife". His words heat her skin and fill her heart. She touches her hand upon his hand, still grasping her cheek, and wishes nothing more than to have the world fall away and leave her and Jon and their child untouched in this moment, for no moment can be more perfect than this.

"I am not worried that they will take insult in waiting, Jon. I am worried that keeping them waiting will result in boredom and in turn, will cause them to break into our wine stores earlier than deemed necessary". Jon chuckles. "Do you not remember what happened the last time they were kept waiting? Tormund, along with Glover, decided to reenact your scaling of the Wall by climbing Winterfell's ramparts. The fools nearly broke all of their limbs had it not been for that pile of snow they happened to land upon". Jon throws his head back and laughs, young and carefree in way he only is with her and their siblings.

He stops laughing though his eyes still shine and brings their foreheads together to touch. "The fools would have deserved it. Winterfell's ramparts are a poor substitute for the Wall". It is her turn to laugh now and she closes her eyes to enjoy the feeling of being Jon and Sansa, not the King and Queen in the North. 

Her laugher trails off and she sighs, knowing that her next words might cause this peaceful, happy moment to shatter but knowing that they must be spoken nonetheless. "Jon, Ned...father would be proud". His fingers slide from her cheek into her hair, pulling her closer still as if to anchor himself.

"I wish he were here. To ask him his thoughts, to share whatever wisdom he could, to ask him how to be a good-", Jon's voice breaks and her heart breaks with it, "- good father, like he was". His other hand drops from her cheek to curve protectively around her swollen middle.

She looks up to the blood red leaves of the Weirwood tree and then to the weeping face, searching for the words to tell Jon what is in her heart, to tell him the truth she knows above all else, that he will be just as good as a father as Ned Stark was to them. That she, who lacks faith in the rest of the world, trusts in this truth implicitly. That she worries about her own ability to mother their child after having been broken and remade and not having all the pieces fit back together as they should, but that she never worries about his. That she loves him and he loves her, that they love this child and that just like everything else in their lives they will find a way for that to be enough.

So she does.

"Jon", she looks to him now, looks into his eyes and wills herself not be lost in them, "you will be a good father because Ned Stark was your father. You learned from him how to be an honorable man, a good man. You learned how a man should love his children from him. You love our babe fiercely already and he has not been borne into this world yet. I know no other outcome than you being a good father Jon".

He kisses her. Moves his lips against hers desperately and she knows she chose her words well. She feels all of his worries escape him in their kiss and no wine could ever taste this sweet.

He is breathing heavily when they part and sees the way his eyes shine. The tears in them a reflection of the ones in hers. 

"Thank you Sansa".

He kisses her again and the desperation of the first kiss has been tempered. His lips now move almost languidly against hers and it is no less sweet than before.

They part again and there are no more tears, only smiles.

"Come, my wife, let us make sure Tormund and Glover and the rest of our bannermen have not drunk all of our wine". He slides his hand from her hair, ghosting his fingers along her arm until they come to intertwine with hers.

She looks to the Weirwood tree as Jon leads her back to the warmth of Winterfell's halls, feeling the strength in his hand as he holds hers but noticing how delicate he treats his hold on her. _Brave, gentle and strong_ , she thinks. Father did keep his promise after all.


End file.
